Of Vitaars and Hair Buns
by Bleve
Summary: An interesting mixture of harmless flirting, misplaced distrust, and friendly one-upmanship - Female Qunari Inquisitor/Iron Bull
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** \- I am such a fangirl when it comes to the Iron Bull. First of all, I usually loathe emphasis on definite articles in proper names (I'm looking at you Buckeyes). But, for the Iron bull, it just works.

**Disclaimer** \- If I owned Dragon Age Inquisition, I would fix all the stupid bugs, like the mosaic piece in the Hinterlands that no one can get to, because it's embedded in the freaking rock wall. Thanks for that Bioware! You're really doing a number on my completionist OCDness.

* * *

Shaky crap. Her hands were implements of delicate might: a flick of the wrist, a flex of digits, and she could rain elemental ruin upon her desired target. And yet, when it came to the most simple and basic of tasks, one that her fingers should instinctually orchestrate, she floundered time and time again. The vitaar and its application were so fundamentally Qunari, very much an integral part of her race's existence and survival. The innate immunity and ability to absorb certain poisons were undeniably useful traits, particularly for those raised Tal-Vashoth, and her parents had easily realized the war paint's importance. They reluctantly understood that it was one part of Par Vollen's culture that she had to know, one of the very few things of the Qun that, if preserved, had some value.

All the time, all the effort, all the care she could muster, and the best result she was capable of was a passable quasi-vitaar, one that would serve its purpose but looked amateurish. The unhorned of Thedas would never suspect its quality, but any of her race would know it instantly. Before Haven, the ongoing, familiar joke amongst the Valo-kas had involved her utter lack of skill in this regard, about how her fellow mercs would rather have a blind nug paint their faces. She had taken the good-natured ribbing in stride, even when it admittedly stung, and she had found a creative way around her shortcoming. Onok was a fearsome fellow mercenary, and only her passion for sex surpassed her hunger for battle. She was also gifted with the poison paint, so they bartered services—Onok gladly applied her vitaar while she took care of any "health" issues that might arise from a busy night.

But, that was before the Temple of Ashes and the Conclave, before the entire world had gone to shit. The Inquisition's genesis had been a turning point for her in a number of ways, some more life-altering than others. Without her clanmate, she had been forced to practice, spending whatever free moments she had with her pots, hoping that maybe the powers the Anchor bestowed upon her included face painting. Much to her dismay, it did not, and then the Iron Bull had come along to expose her.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror, and she could see the splotchy imperfections in the strokes on her cheek. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped the work off of her face bitterly, sighing under her breath. For better or worse, hiring the Iron Bull and his Chargers had changed the status quo, and the addition of another Qunari amongst the ranks had rankled her for a number of reasons. Not only was he a consistent reminder of a world that loathed her very existence, he had taken on the mantle of Tal-Vashoth falsely, as a double agent for the Ben-Hassrath. It annoyed her to no end that he willingly accepted such a scornful existence; and on top of that, he had found his niche amongst the outcasts, making his assumed fate all his own. She envied that, terribly so, especially since she had just found her place within the Inquisition when he joined, reminding her of a certain acceptance that she would never achieve. Not that she ever pictured herself following all of the Qun's strict guidelines or living up to its exhausting expectations. Never would she be given the chance to convert, and even if the impossible occurred, Par Vollen could kiss her ass. Tal-Vashoth may be a slur to them, but to her, it meant freedom.

Free, but strange—the creature that looked back at her through the glass was an oddball, the sore thumb that had always stuck out. Mix one part towering frame with two parts horn, and add a healthy sprinkle of magic—the result was six foot five inches of pure terror. A saarebas, if birthed in Qunandar, she was both mage and Qunari, and a rarity amongst rarities in Orlais and the Free Marches. Even within the patchwork mesh of Thedas' citizens that the Inquisition comprised, she was still a misfit. She had learned long ago that she would be a perpetual loner, to wear her one-of-a-kind status as armor, a way to deflect some of the heartache and headache that accompanied such a status. Even the Iron Bull had been almost cuttingly quick to point out that she wasn't a true Qunari. It was a familiar sensation, the realization that even members of your own race could and would reject you. She had years to learn how to cope, to dull that troublesome ache until it receded into a dark and lonely corner of her mind.

Ironic, then, that now the "real" Qunari had been stripped of his precious Par Vollen. She would never tell him, but she pitied him for the loss, even if she had never known life under the Qun. She had had the benefit of peace and time to sort through the turmoil of rejection, but he had neither luxury. The danger in pretending to be something else was that, one day, you woke up and actually were something else; and, if she had to guess, the Iron Bull was Tal-Vashoth long before the events of the Iron Coast. It simply took a reminder of his old life to force him to embrace the new one, but his subsequent abandonment had left him rattled, whether or not his prideful ass would let him admit to it.

She knew what he was going through, better than anyone else in Skyhold, which is why she felt she was more than qualified to give Bull some counsel. So, she had made the foolish mistake of going to the Herald's Rest two evenings past to speak with him, and got the sight of a lifetime—broad shoulders and even broader horns, hovering over a crimson crown of hair and pale small breasts. She stopped dead in her tracks, realizing too late what she had stumbled upon, panicking in equal parts shame and guilt. Heat crept across her body, an inferno as his head came up, crystal blue eyes meeting hers, and the bastard had the nerve to grin at her. He never faltered; there was no hesitation, no acknowledgement of her presence save for the staring down he gave her—the gaze unapologetic, hungry, asking questions she could not answer.

Stroke, swipe, down and out, the line she left around her eye wasn't her worst work, so she would leave it for now. Maybe thinking about Bull wasn't the best mental material when she was trying to focus, and she had definitely tried to steer clear of the one-eyed wonder after his little show—with very little success. Their working relationship was an interesting mixture of harmless flirting, misplaced distrust, and friendly one-upmanship. They both enjoyed a good battle, albeit with entirely different methods of attack, but that didn't stop them from keeping a kill count for comparison's sake. Neither of them knew when to back down from a fight, be it with weapons or words, and of course, she enjoyed annoying him to no end. For his part, he seemed to like the challenge, or at least the coin it earned him.

A knock interrupted her stew, and the source of her disquiet came strolling up the stairs as if he owned the place. He sauntered his way over to her desk, stopping nearby, "Hey boss."

She lowered her brush before speaking, "You know...most people wait for a response after knocking."

Too late, she realized her blunder, as his reaction was lightning fast, zero hesitation. "You don't."

Wow, she really walked right into that one, and she tilted her head back, sighing while staring at the ceiling. It was well past time to nip this ridiculousness in the bud. "I had no idea that room was anyone's quarters, Bull, so I didn't even think to knock that night. I'm sorry…"

Hands up, he offered, "Whoa, Boss. I was only teasing you; I didn't actually expect an apology. Besides, I think you got an eyeful and a lesson."

They laughed it off, but just the thought of her "lesson" brought fire to her cheeks. She didn't understand why it had affected her so, after all, it was hardly the first time she had seen such behavior, especially living in a mercenary camp. Best not to think about it now, however. "True, but you didn't come here to remind me of that. What did you need?"

"Well, I came here to chat with you about the Chargers," and he paused, waving his hand toward the jars on her desk, "But, by the look of things, you may need my help more urgently."

She ignored the jab, steering the conversation toward his merc band and the results of their recent missions. She thought that maybe he had forgotten the vitaar, but as soon as he could, he circled back, "A little unsolicited advice, you should ditch the brush. Use your fingers to apply the poison."

She did not need a lecture from him, especially about _this_. "Thanks, but I'm good. "

His gaze never left her face as a smirk formed on his lips, and they sat there, neither flinching, when she finally threw her hands up. "Fine. So, it's horrible. Not everyone grew up with a Tamassran up their ass, teaching them how to blow their nose and paint their face."

His roar of laughter made her smile despite her inadequacy, and he shook his head, "Try it will you? It's more natural."

Rolling her eyes, she dipped the tip of her index finger in a pot, running it across her jaw line. The mark left did seem smoother, even if not quite as crisp. Tilting her face in the mirror, "Well...at least it's not any worse."

"Watch…" he offered, and all too late, she realized that his voice was coming from behind her. It was his finger, dabbed in poison, that she stared at in the reflection as it ran up along her other cheekbone. Large and lithe, his arm hovered in her periphery, floating delicately above her shoulder, and her body tensed involuntarily when her brain realized the path the paint would take. Across her temple, his nail grazed the base of her horn, and she bit her tongue to keep from groaning.

Murmuring, he teased, "Like that, boss."

The words swirled in her head, and it took her a moment to realize that he wasn't asking her a question. She found her voice, "I see…"

A demonstration, she thought, and nothing more, but then she saw his smile. Save for the grin, Bull appeared mostly unaffected, and he could have easily been drinking a beer or killing a demon. She disliked that cool exterior, that Ben-Hassrath shell he used to mask his feelings. His finger stopped tracing her face, "Then show me…"

His body was too close behind her, and his words, well, they weren't explicit but there was something in his tone. Lifting her right hand, she dipped her finger in the nearest pot, and moved it toward her face. Her arm shook slightly, and it took all her composure to resist jerking away when his hand enveloped hers. They were her weapons, and when restrained in any form, her anxiety rose a thousandfold. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly—being helpful, she reminded herself, Bull was just trying to teach her. Three calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, while his thumb and index finger split across her palm to guide her. The tip of her digit made contact with her forehead to continue the line, but he held back, "Gently...Adaar. You're applying paint, not swinging a staff."

Tuning him out, she concentrated on the warpaint and her patterns. It was strange, the application with the pad of her finger as opposed to a brush, but it did seem more natural, more connected. Once she seemed to have a grasp of the technique, he let go of her hand, and when finished, she actually had a mostly-passable vitaar.

"Not bad…" he spoke from behind her. "In Par Vollen, an imekari of age is taught first to apply the vitaar by hand. A brush is a later addition, only if the wearer chooses it, and it is mostly used for the finer details."

She nodded, turning in her chair to face him. "Well, there's one thing that the Qun managed to get right."

He chuckled, "Next time, I'll teach you a few more tricks, and if you keep improving, maybe I'll even let you practice on me."

That potential reward sent her mind racing, and the only conclusions it quickly came to were entirely fun but complicated ones. It would be for the best if there was no next time. "Bull, I appreciate the advice, but I don't think…"

He cut her off, "That you need help? Of course you don't. It's a good thing that I know better."

The finality of his statement, and the absolute but hated truth of it, silenced her as he crossed the room, pausing on the top stoop of the stairs. His eyes, they were focused on her, staring at her in the same way they had the night she found him on top of the barmaid, and a chill danced across her body. "See you tomorrow, Boss."

"Night, Bull," she finally managed, as she watched his retreating form disappear slowly from view. He was trouble—deep, in-over-her-horns type trouble, but she was never one to shy away from a problem, especially not one built like the Iron Bull.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer** \- I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters. All belongs to Bioware.

* * *

Reekit. Reekit Reekit. The frogs that found their home around the pools of the oasis called through the warm, quiet night searching relentlessly for a mate. The noise echoed off the massive caverns of rock that surrounded the desert's gift, like sentinels set to watch over a precious treasure. The oasis was just that—a gem surrounded by loads and loads of sand as far as the eye can see, a blanket of buttery white in every direction. The springs that flowed from the mountains offered a rare source of life amongst the harsh landscape, and all creatures, both beast and man, were called to it. Native wildlife did not concern him, however. No, it was the Venatori and their pet mages that he listened for. Perched at the edge of camp, the horseshoe shaped ring of tents was behind him, tucked against and underneath one of the walls of sandstone. Here, he could keep an ear out for the enemy while his companions went about their nightly routines.

He had traveled with them all long enough to learn their behaviors, just like any agent would and should—some habits he was certain he would never break. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to see Dorian devouring the pages of some dog-eared, aged book, or to witness Cassandra honing the edge of her blade with a whetstone. Those two were predictable, beholden to their rituals and set in their ways. But, the Inquisitor? Well, the only thing that their leader did consistently was find trouble. There was almost zero noise coming from her tent, but he knew that meant nothing. The dynamo rarely rested, and her mind was always churning, poring over some problem presented by the Venatori or attempting to master some worrisome skill. Adaar was an impossible perfectionist, and he knew that passion drove her; he only hoped it wouldn't consume her.

Footsteps approached from behind, and he turned his head to find that he had somehow summoned the object of his thoughts. Really, the credit was probably more hers, as she looked dead set on doing something. What concerned him was that it seemed her destination was outside of the camp, and he couldn't help but be protective, "Leaving?"

She stopped, eyeing him, deciding if he was going to be an obstacle. "Yes...I am in need of a bath, and the falls here will do wonders."

That didn't sit very well with him, considering there were probably still enemies around—enough that they should be cautious. "You shouldn't go off alone though, Boss. It's beautiful here, and deceptively deadly, with the wildlife and the Venatori…"

A twitch, whenever the Inquisitor was up to something, the corner of her mouth wiggled in an amusing way, "You're right...going alone is a bad idea. Luckily, there's a strong, capable warrior around…"

Preening, he straightened his shoulders as a response was ready to spring from his lips, when she spun and called out, "Cassandra?"

Deflated and swallowing his words, he saw the woman's head appear from between the tent flaps, "Yes, Inquisitor?"

"Care to join me? I was on my way to clean up, and there is safety in numbers."

The two of them left for the pools, but not before Herah threw him an emphatic wink over her shoulder. That female and her damnable charm were going to be the death of him. A master of flirting and fighting, it had been both his charisma and physical prowess that had earned him a place within the ranks of the Ben-Hassrath. He preferred fights where he could simply swing an axe, but he also understood that not all battles were won that way, that sometimes one's tongue was the better weapon, and he excelled in all aspects with both. He'd been in enough different scenarios to appreciate that each mission required its own unique combination of boast and brawn. Barmaids, castle guards, women and men alike of all races...he had used his charms in whatever capacity necessary to befriend or seduce them, and it had earned him whatever he desired without guilt.

And now, it seemed he may have met his match. There was something more to this, and his conscience refused to let him forget it, which was new and disturbing. The Inquisition looked to destroy world-ending evil, so maybe that was the large part of it; the quest they were on together was vital, and it seemed trivial to come on to a woman who was fated with such a formidable task. The rest, he reluctantly admitted, had to do with who Adaar was herself. When he had first heard about the Inquisition's formation, he had immediately discounted the description of its Herald. There was no way anything even remotely Chantry-related would allow a Vashoth at its helm. But, the day she found him on the Storm Coast, he had nearly swallowed his tongue in disbelief and amusement. The Inquisitor was a breathtaking, horned beauty, and, he quickly found out, a fiercely-loyal, incredibly smart mage. Only the latter revelation had given him any reservations, and soon enough, the flirting began, almost as naturally as breathing or lying.

It was complicated, and made more so by her unfortunate inability to knock. Her embarrassing bumrush of his quarters that night had been equally amusing and exhilarating—the blush that had come over her fog-tinted skin, and her eyes, there was no doubt she was shocked by what she saw, but also intrigued. She had stayed still, not running or turning away, eyes locked forward, and he had met her gaze. He had no shame; after all, she had barged into his space, and if she wanted a show, he would more than happily perform. He had almost found his voice to invite her to join them, when she had finally fled.

Ever since, their mutual game of enticement had risen to a whole new level of competition, and he realized that the idea of getting clean had more appeal than ever before. After all, he did not need an invitation to use the falls, and her masterful tease had not included a warning to stay away. He stood to leave, and the sound must have caught the attention of the remaining party member, because the meddlesome mage finally spoke, "Interested in a bath rather suddenly, aren't we?"

"What's it to you, Vint? Are you in charge of keeping track of the group's grooming habits?"

Dorian stroked his goatee, a smug little smirk on his lips. "Not at all. But, it would do wonders for my nose. Nothing smells worse than ripe Qunari."

The man came towards him, gesturing toward the pool. "Come on. You'll look less obvious to her if we both go."

He tried nonchalant ignorance, "What are you talking about?"

All he received in response was the Altus' laughter, as the pesky ass started walking away from camp. He followed, moving quietly through the heavy night air, careful to watch his footing, until feminine voices met his ears. The cavern walls opened, and moonlight bathed the entire pool in an iridescent light that made the water shimmer like liquid diamond. He dared to look, to find the source of her voice, the one he knew belonged to the vexing female that seemingly plagued him.

Armor gone, all she wore was the seafoam green, cotton undershirt that usually hid underneath the layers of protective leather. The fabric clung in its soaked state against her bare thighs, and his eyes dared to climb higher, following the outline of her form. Her hair, normally trapped within a knot, was loose and free, flowing down her neck while barely brushing her shoulders, and it took all of his training, every minute spent under the thumb of a Besrathari, to keep his instincts under control. A deep breath, he focused on the removal of his armor, the pieces shed and set carefully amongst a rockpile that held everyone's belongings. Dorian did the same, and soon enough, the ladies' conversation halted. Adaar turned her gaze towards them, "Joining us, boys?"

He was grateful that the Vint responded, "Hygiene is a virtue, Inquisitor. How often are we blessed with such accommodating landscape?"

Cassandra chimed in, "Very rarely. Lucky for you, that neither the Inquisitor nor myself are particularly shy women."

They all laughed together, the harmony echoing off the cavern walls, as each of them set about their ministrations without further comment. He was well aware that he was in the company of former soldiers and mercenaries, even if they were female, and so showering in mixed company was probably nothing new for them. Still, he kept his samite pants on, wading into the pool, the temperature cool but not unpleasantly so. He moved cautiously toward the falls, stepping under the water, the brisk flow crashing into his scalp and down his shoulders. He lifted his hands, cupping the water and scrubbing the grime from his neck and chest. He lost himself in the luxury of running water, when it occurred to him that he was lacking one necessary item. "Dorian...is there any soap? I know you have to have some."

"There was," he responded from his side of the pool, sounding way too glib, "But, I just gave it to our fearless leader."

His responsive curse came out louder than planned, and he barely caught her snicker over it. He strolled over to her, "Mind sharing that soap, boss?"

Eyes wide and hungry, he smirked as he recognized the look of appreciation that passed over her face as she turned to hand him the requested item. He knew she had gotten a pretty decent look at his body the night she stumbled unto his romp, but wet clothes could also work in his favor, since there were some things that she definitely had _not_ seen before. She managed to respond, "Here you go."

"Thanks."

She dropped the soap in his hand, careful to avoid contact. But, he made no moves to leave her space, and finally she asked, "Is there something else?"

He shrugged as he looked around, pretending to be intrigued by everything other than her half-naked body. "Just admiring the beautiful view."

She snorted, "Really? You appreciate the local flora and fauna?"

"Sure. But are you from around these parts?"

A chuckle, "No. I think that cacti may be the only indigenous residents."

That earned a smirk out of him. "So, where, then?"

She hesitated, as his further question seemed to catch her off guard, but she responded, "The Free Marches...near Wycome, to be specific."

"Ah…" he muttered, half his suspicion confirmed. He had gotten the city wrong, but he had nailed the country, if you could call the Marches that. Before he could say any more, she was moving, walking carefully along the edge of the pool toward the nearby stones where their belongings awaited. She seemed unwilling to share any further, and he wouldn't pry unnecessarily. He let the conversation drop, focusing back on his grooming and the soap that he had finally procured, while keeping an eye on the hem of a certain cotton shirt.

She reached into a bag, pulling out a hair comb, and he looked on, intrigued, as she gently began to work loose the knots in her damp hair. Then, she parted it, methodically sectioning the portions as she pulled them back toward her crown. She reached for a band, grasping her ponytail and caging it within the restraint. Her deft fingers moved quickly, working the strands into the signature coil that he instantly recognized. He spoke, impressed, "I just watched you do that...and somehow, I still have no idea how you did it."

A smile, "Well...you have no hair, and being male probably doesn't help."

He laughed, "That is true. But I do rather enjoy yours…so much so that it makes me think I am definitely missing out on something. Did you learn to do that in the Marches?"

"Yes," she responded, and he caught the eyebrow twitch that meant she was about to ask a question—she was always curious. "How do women in Qunadar wear their hair?"

"To be honest, it's been so many years that I scarcely remember. I think most had short hair, shaved even. Few females had anything longer than their ears..."

Even he could be taken unawares, and he paused as the reminiscing stirred feelings of melancholy and sadness. She started, "I'm sorry, Bull. I didn't mean…"

His hands went up, "It's okay, Boss. I'm going to get plenty of reminders of all that I abandoned when I turned my back on the Qun. I need to get used to it."

She took the opportunity to ask, "Any more issues with the Ben-Hassrath?"

"No. They have made their point, albeit weakly. They will do no more."

Her brow creased in worry, "Let's hope that they are satisfied with their pathetic little display."

He chuckled at her, "Not a fan of their methods?"

"No, I find them spineless and unoriginal. I take an attack within the walls of my own fortress rather personally."

"Why? You weren't the target."

"Why not?" she asked, like it was obvious. "Let me put it another way...what if someone went after Krem?"

"They would deal with all of the Chargers, myself included."

"Exactly, and it's the same for you," she offered, "I was with you on the ramparts when the assassins struck, but if it had been Blackwall or Sera or anyone else in my place—any of us would have helped you and we still will. A threat to one is a threat to us all."

"The Ben-Hassrath aren't angry with the Inquisition, and none of you are Qunari," he saw a brief look of discomfort flash across her face before it disappeared, "They are my problem; I am the one who went Tal-Vashoth."

She failed to restrain her contempt, "You act like it's a death sentence."

"It is, under the Qun."

"Then fuck the Qun."

He laughed so hard that he snorted, and she grinned, "Seriously...life without the Qun is possible. I am proof of that."

His eyebrow went up, the cord holding his eyepatch lifting slightly, "You never knew what you were missing, Boss. You were raised differently, with a family, in some backwater city in the Marches."

"Right. I missed out on all the childhood manipulation and oppressive tyranny. I lived such a terribly deprived existence..."

"You know, life in Par Vollen is not as horrible as you make it out to be. The Qun has its merits. Many thrive under its rules."

"And many do not. I can't help but notice which group you fell in with."

Irritated, he argued, "I served my purpose outside of Qunadar, as not all are meant to live within its borders. The Beresaad leave to strike out in search of answers, and the Ben-Hassrath are the eyes and ears of the Qunari throughout Thedas. But even in foreign lands, the Qun is still to be followed, and I did just that, faithfully, until the Coast."

"So, how many years did you serve?"

"Almost twenty-one."

"Twenty years of sweat and blood and toil in Seheron and the Maker only knows where else, and they abandoned you because of one choice on the Storm Coast?"

"I had orders, ones that I chose to ignore, and disobedience is never sanctioned. Asit tal-eb."

"So, the fact that your men were going to die didn't matter?"

"No. I chose the lives of the Chargers over those of the Qunari on that dreadnaught. I chose worthless Bas over Aban-Karasaad, and that is not forgiven. I will live as Tal-Vashoth for that decision."

"For the _right_ decision. Your men, your Chargers mean a lot to you. You've taken every one of them under your wing, and you find pride in what others have discarded and assumed worthless. You expect much from them, but it's no more than you're willing to give of yourself. Life as a Tal-Vashoth seems a small price to pay in exchange for theirs."

"To you, I'm sure it does. But, you've never seen the slaughter that I have in Seheron, and what they have done there, it's…"

He struggled, his throat as dry as the sands surrounding the oasis, and he reached deep, fighting for composure, "You don't understand, and I am not sure that I can explain it well enough. I've killed thousands of Tal-Vashoth and I swore that I would never be one of them. They lie, steal, kill without reason or remorse."

She crossed the water silently, coming back to him, her smokey musk filling his nostrils. "Not all of them. Look at me, Bull."

Her hand, the only weapon that he would allow so close, came up to his cheek, tilting his face to hers. "My parents both lost faith in the Qun and left in search of more. What they found was each other, and happiness outside of its stifling restraints. You can claim that I am ignorant, that I have lost out by not living under the Qun, but you're wrong. I am Tal-Vashoth because I chose to be, and so are you. But, we don't need to be liars, or thieves, or murderers. I don't need the Qun in my life to tell me what's right, and neither do you."

He shook his head, "Savages...that is what we become without the Qun. I've seen it before so many times; why will it be different for me?"

The look of disappointment was clear; she never tried to mask her emotions. Her hand fell away, "So, The Iron Bull, the commander of the well-respected Bull's Chargers, can be so easily led? Do you not control your own hands, your own thoughts? Or are you merely some Ben-Hassrath puppet, that's been cast aside like vashedan."

Anger, not at her, but at the truth of her words and he growled, "I am no one's puppet."

"Good. It would do you well to remember that. I don't need toys, I need capable warriors who are willing to commit to the Inquisition. You are nothing like the Tal-Vashoth you came across in Seheron."

"But I could be…"

"And I could be the Empress of Orlais."

In his mind's eye, he tried to imagine her as royalty, and the absolute silliness of it made him smile. Without thought, his fingers stroked the few loose tendrils of hair that sat near her cheek, "I don't know...I think you'd look amazing in a crown."

"But, you'll never catch me in one of the ridiculous gowns…"

They laughed together, the levity a needed break in the serious conversation. On the subject of being a Tal-Vashoth, he was sure they would never agree, but he would try it for her if nothing else. They finished their baths in silence, returning to camp, as thoughts of what could be with the maddening Inquisitor raced through his mind. Her confidence in him, even if he thought it misplaced, had changed his perspective on so much. Everything before had seemed muddled, uncertain, but now, he knew exactly what he wanted, and what he had to do to get it. When they returned to Skyhold, he would hatch his plan. The poor female had no idea what she had started...but she was going to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer** \- I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters. All belongs to Bioware.

* * *

A cacophony of voices, each one unique; together she had heard their chorus of woe as they had whispered incoherently inside of her mind in a strange, unnerving tongue. Focusing on them was a challenge, and she had only managed to make out a few words, but the tone had left no doubt—they spoke of warnings and prophecies, wrapped together into a knot of desperation. Her failings had earned her Morrigan's disdain, an unmistakable burgundy-lipped sneer in her periphery as they had all stood around the huge oak table, and it hadn't surprised her that the raven-haired mage was jealous. Luckily for her, Morrigan's curiosity was far hungrier than her ambition, and she had left the war room with a plan to set out for the Altar at dawn's first light. It gave her a precious few hours to settle some unfinished business.

As she moved through the worn passages of Skyhold, she noticed the determined faces of her soldiers, and she smiled at the realization that even the servants and other residents moved with a purposeful step. Everyone knew what they faced; they all understood that Corypheus would not take a slight like he had in the Wilds without some sort of retaliation. He was cornered, suffering from defeat at their collective hand, and it was only a matter of time before he struck back. Her Inquisition would be ready, and so would she. Yes, preparation was vital, and as her people saw to their tasks, she would see to hers. She already knew which of her companions she wanted to accompany her, but she had to question if one in particular still wanted to follow.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of trying to ask the now-silent voices for a vision, but quickly decided against it. On this particular subject, she didn't need muddled, divine elven intervention or countless lifetimes of wisdom. She would never doubt the Iron Bull's abilities, but something had definitely changed in his demeanor while they had scoured the Wilds. He was very much there physically, ready to mete out deathblows to any who dared defy them, but in retrospect, he had been mentally distant, somber, and retracted, almost guarded. At the time, she had dismissed his quiet as a reaction to a mixture of adrenaline and nerves—after all, they had come upon rather strange things within the temple. It wasn't until they stood next to the Well of Sorrows that she had realized something was very wrong. There had been a slight hesitation when he responded with his advice to take the well, and then, he had nearly jumped out of his own skin when she had pushed him toward the Eluvian. Was his reaction to having to pass through the magical mirror, or to her touch? She knew not, but it seemed rather unfair that he would encourage her actions and then treat her differently. But, she did have a sneaking suspicion as to why he might be acting so strangely, and it was well past time for her to confirm it.

A cool breeze blew across the courtyard, hastening her feet as they carried her instinctively towards the Herald's Rest. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, moving inside the common room as the tavern's patrons paid her little heed, lost in their cups or the bard's songs. She marched toward the stairs, and when she saw that he was not at his usual station, she climbed them two at a time. Up and further up, she rounded each flight, reaching the final story and the door to his quarters. Knuckles found wood, sounding out a distinct pattern, and when no response came, she slowly turned the handle. The hinges groaned quietly as she pushed the door open, and all she found inside was the normal hodge-podge mix of strewn clothes, empty bottles, and the bed with an axe buried in the headboard. Seeing the strangely lodged weapon made her pause, her thoughts drifting to the last time she had joined him in this very room.

"_Why not?"_

_Scurrying, she scrambled to sit up on the edge of the mattress, leaving the warmth of his embrace as her hands fell uselessly into her lap. Her instincts screamed for a change in position—most of her body gladly accepted a submissive role in the bed, except for her mouth, and this was the one point that haunted her, making her feel inadequate._

_He leaned up, resting on his elbows with biceps flexing, "I'm not discussing this again."_

_She rolled her eyes, frustration warming her blood. "Of course you're not. Why bother trying to make someone you claim to love understand why you would be against something so very natural?"_

"_Natural? To whom, Kadan? I have already told you, that what you are asking for goes against everything I have ever known, everything I have ever been taught. Sex is a choice, but..."_

_She cut him off, already aware of the tired argument he was making. "Ah...the Qun raises its ugly head yet again, and this is just more proof of its horror. Everything about one's life is controlled...what you feel, when you feed, how you fuck."_

"_There is a reason, a purpose for the instruction—the Qunari pride themselves on breeding the best possible offspring. The Tamassrans choose breeding pairs specifically to accentuate the positive and root out the negative. My people have done this for ages, and while you may hate the methods…" he lifted one arm, gesturing towards his sprawled out body while wearing a very smug grin, "you can't argue the result."  
_

"_I wouldn't dare…" she murmured, an answering smile forming on her mouth at his boast, and she knew it was time for a change in tactics. She crawled across him, since he had so willingly invited her, knees coming to rest on either side of his thighs. He moved with her, sitting up, his feet finding the floor, and she put her weight in his lap, her heels hooking into place behind his calves. He was perched on the edge of the bed, and she shifted her hips against him, the pressure tantalizingly perfect, a tiny grunt escaping his lips at the contact. "I'm not asking for anything so terrible as children, Bull. I can take precautions..."_

"_Precautions?" he shook his head, a rueful, half-smile on his lips. "You have no idea…"_

_He stood, lifting her gently with him, and he turned them so that her back was facing the bed. He bent at the waist, her body coming to rest on the mattress as he loomed over her, and for the briefest, most joyful second, she thought she had won. His hand grabbed her chin, bringing her eyes to his; lost and sad, they spoke to her so much that she was silenced. He sighed, voice strained, "Sorry, Kadan. But I cannot allow you to wear me down on this, and if I stay with you tonight...you just might."  
_

_He said no more, gathering his clothes and dressing hastily in the dimly lit room. She stared daggers at him; as far as she was concerned the stubborn idiot could punish himself all he liked. She managed to keep her composure, refusing to cave until he approached her again. He bent low, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek, and it nearly broke her heart and her resolve. "I'll see you in the morning." _

_This was ridiculous. "Where do you think you're going? These are your quarters...I can leave..." she tried to sound angry, and instead instantly hated how weak her voice sounded._

_Frustrated, she moved to get out of the bed, and he reached out his hand to her shoulder, preventing her escape. "Stay."_

_"Why?"_

"_Because then, I can at least dream about you being in my bed. Even if I cannot join you in it."_

_Before she could say any more, he was gone, the door closing behind him._

Loud, drunken laughter carried up the stairs, and it startled her back to reality. She was certain that the well had not only given her knowledge, but also the ability to re-live events in her past. She had always had a keen memory, but now, it almost seemed that she could watch her past self in stunning detail, re-seeing every moment with added clarity, and it was no surprise that her most favorite conjured image would involve a certain one-eyed Qunari.

But, she needed to find him in the now, and standing here daydreaming was not going to accomplish that. Her footsteps echoed along the ramparts of the fortress as she searched, her annoyance increasing at the waste of her time. The mule-headed, big-horned lummox had a lot of nerve to drag their personal matters onto the battlefield. If her hunch was correct, if his odd behavior in the Wilds was due to their disagreement, she would use him as her own personal training dummy. He had promised to keep their personal arrangement separate from their professional one, and he had managed to do a fairly decent job up to now.

Their relationship had been almost too easily, even amongst the absolute chaos that engulfed them. She had fallen deeply for Bull—he had shown her things, about herself, about the world, that she would never have seen with her own eyes. She could still feel the relief, the giddy happiness when he had told her that she was the only one, for as long as whatever they shared continued. He had taken their lovemaking to a level she had never known, initiating her into a whole new aspect of submission, and while terrifying, she had trembled and thrived within every second of it.

But, somewhere along the way, she realized that he was _too_ in control, that he never seemed to lose himself. Everything, she gave totally to him—mind, body, and soul; but he restrained, withholding his last abandon from her. Sure, he gave her unending, toe-curling pleasure, took her to heights that she never would have reached within the bedroom; and the selfish part of her wanted to just go along with the status quo, to silence her nagging curiosity. After all, if Bull wasn't satisfied, surely he would say something, her greedy side had argued. But, she was nothing if not thorough, and she had asked, only to be dismissed by the object of her affections telling her that he was more than fine with their arrangement.

Maybe he was, but the small voice in her head that wanted to see him break, to crumble and beg her for a change, never quieted...if anything it only grew, and as it did, her satisfaction diminished. Was it so terribly wrong that she wanted to give him the same mind-blowing experiences? Eventually, she voiced her wishes to him, and he had objected, but they were both stubborn creatures. At first, their impasse had been a casual, almost funny thing between them; after all, most relationships had some sort of spark of disagreement. It was cute, a little quirk they could point to as proof of the normalcy. But over time, it morphed into a issue, something that crawled beneath her skin and irritated her, which led to arguments and plots where she would do her best to shake him and his infallible skills, but she never succeeded. One time she had come close, almost managing to corral him, but even then he had pulled away from her at the final second.

She pressed onward, still searching, checking the practice yard, the kitchens, even the gardens, and then she began to think that he must be toying with her. If he was not where he belonged, then where else could he be? She was about to inspect the stables when she heard the call, "Inquisitor!"

Manderly, one of the guards who was normally posted within the throne room, was jogging toward her, and she paused as the man approached, "Yes?"

The man looked nervous, almost out of sorts, and it was strange, as he was always the absolute picture of decorum and formality. He stuttered, "I have a message for you, Inquisitor."

She nodded, and he looked toward the tower nervously, "You have been asked to return to your quarters, as soon as you are able."

Almost immediately she realized who made the request, and it took her a moment to recover from her laughter as the poor red-faced guard still stood at attention, waiting for her to speak. She smiled, "Did you relay that message word for word, soldier?"

The answer was obvious, but she still couldn't help but ask the question. To his credit, the man hesitated, the truth written plain as day on his face, "No, your worship. I'd like to keep my rank and my teeth."

She nodded as the guard fell into step behind her, moving undeterred back into the keep and through the throne room. When she reached the door to her quarters, she looked over her shoulder to Manderly and said, "I'm not to be disturbed until dawn, unless Corypheus himself tries to sit upon my throne. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Inquisitor."

"Thank you."

As the door closed, she thought she heard one of the other guards chuckle at her joke, but she didn't bother to care. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, and lo and behold, she found the Iron Bull sitting on her bed, just like he had the day they started this whole, damnably wonderful mess. Neither of them bothered with a greeting, and for a few precious moments she allowed the silence, the peace a chance to memorize all of his breathtaking features. He rose slowly from the mattress, moving deliberately closer, and she stepped forward meeting him halfway. Toe to toe they stood, and even at her towering height, he still bested her by a few inches. Finally, she dared to speak, her voice barely a whisper, "I've been looking everywhere for you…"

Rich and smooth, his tone reminded her of the feel of Orlesian silk on her skin, "Seems like we might have had the same plan in mind, boss. Just two different ways of getting it accomplished."

She frowned, his words accurate in so many ways, "Well, we're both here now."

He nodded, and she stumbled on her words as she continued, their proximity driving her clumsy, "We should talk about the Wilds."

His fingers grasped at her hips, pulling her body into his as his lips tickled at her ear. "Talk? Right now, there is absolutely nothing I want to talk about…"


End file.
